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9/27/11

Jacqueline Doyle

Crossing the River Lethe

It's a cool night, cold when the wind
blows across the water, and she forgot to bring a jacket. At least she thinks
she forgot to bring a jacket.She
can't remember preparing for this trip at all, or where she is headed. The
stars reel slowly in the vast firmament above her in forgotten constellations.
She knew them once, traced them on a large, folding map of the night sky when
she was a child: Cassiopeia, Orion, Andromeda, the Big Dipper. She's never seen
such a profusion of stars. It should be possible to orient herself by the North
Star. Isn't that the brightest? But she can't locate it, and can't recall how
to navigate by the North Star, though she used to know. The black water gleams,
reflecting the starshine. The rushing current on the sides of the boat looks
treacherous and icy cold. She can't remember the name of the river. It's a cool
night, cold when the wind blows, and she can't remember where she's going
exactly. The sky is so vast. She feels infinitesimally small. She's having
trouble remembering her own name.

Jacqueline Doyle enjoys flash, and she has
pieces published and forthcoming in DOGZPLOT, LITnIMAGE, Monkeybicycle,
Staccato Fiction, flashquake, blossombones, elimae, 5_trope, and many other
online journals. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she teaches at
California State University, East Bay.